Our World, Or, the Slaveholder's Daughter eBook

“We have no demand on your feelings, my man!
we want your duty-what the state put you here to perform,”
interrupted Blowers, placing his thumbs in his vest,
and making a step backward. Another second, and
the attendant lighted a hand-lamp,—­a sharp,
slapping blow was heard, a death-like shriek followed;
the flesh quivered and contracted into a discoloured
and inflamed pustule; the body writhed a few seconds
in convulsive spasms; a low moaning followed, and that
fair form hung swooning in the slings, as the keeper,
in fright, cried out, at the top of his voice, to
the attendant—­“Lower away the fall!”
As if the fiend had not yet gratified his passion,
no sooner was the seemingly lifeless body lowered
clumsily to the floor, than he grasped the weapon
from Broadman’s hand, and like a tiger seeking
its banquet of flesh, was about to administer a second
blow. But Broadman had a good heart, the admonitions
of which soared high above the state’s mandate:
seizing Blowers in his arms, he ejected him from the
door, ran back to the prostrate woman, released her
bruised limbs from the fastenings, gathered her to
his arms; and with nervous hands and anxious face
did he draw from his pocket the well-timed hartshorn,
by the application of which he sought to restore her,
as the mulatto man stood by, bathing her temples with
cold water. “Ah! shame on the thing called
a man who could abuse a sweet creature of fine flesh,
like thee! it’s not many has such a pretty sweet
face,” says Broadman, with an air of compassion,
resting her shoulder against his bended knee as he
encircles it with his left arm, and looks upon the
pale features, tears glistening in his honest eyes.
We might say with Broadman—­“It’s
not the finest, nor the polished of flesh, that hath
the softest hearts.” But, reader, having
performed our duty, let us drop the curtain over this
sad but true scene; and when you have conjectured the
third and fourth acts of the drama, join with us in
hoping the chivalry of our State may yet awake to
a sense of its position, that, when we again raise
it, a pleasanter prospect may be presented.

CHAPTER LIV.

Inwhicharediscoveriesandpleasantscenes.

St. PATRICK’S night closed the day on which
the scenes of the foregoing chapter were enacted;
and that patron saint being of aristocratic descent,
which caused him to be held in high esteem by our
“very first families,” than among whom
better admirers could nowhere be found, his anniversary
was sure to be celebrated with much feasting and drinking.
But while this homage to the good saint made glad
the hearts of thousands-while the city seemed radiant
of joy, and reeling men from Hibernia’s gorgeous
hall found in him an excuse for their revelries—­there
sat in the box of a caf, situated on the west side
of Meeting Street, two men who seemed to have a deeper
interest at heart than that of the Saint’s joy